


Corpseflower

by Angelas



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Language, M/M, Psychological Torture, based at the Victoriano mansion in chapter 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sebastian thinks he's found sweet respite in one of the empty rooms in the Victoriano mansion, and is only just terribly mistaken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corpseflower

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick contribution that i'll probably regret later. e.e
> 
> nonetheless, this ship must sail<3

**oOo**

The mansion is maddening in its size.

The amount of doors inside is ridiculous. The hallways reel on like rolls of film—endless—dank, and groaning with age.

Still, at the end of the day, everything looks the fucking same, anyway. And it’s only just now that Sebastian realizes that he’s gotten too low on ammo.

Perhaps a clip of 9mm and a few stray shells in his pocket. Not nearly enough to feel safe. As for any sort of useful arrow he might be able to use on those, _things_ , (need be) for the six hundred pound crossbow cutting sores at his back, that all went to hell a long time ago.

But that’s not all.

At least, not when Sebastian finds a moment of respite inside one of the (shockingly) empty rooms at the end of that particular hall:

The trusty oil lamp at his hip has begun flickering, sizzling in short choking spurts from the insulator.

And if there was no panic in him before, now there is.

He has no oil on him.

In fact, Sebastian hasn’t come across any proper oil since this whole thing started happening. He hopes through curses that it’s just a trick of his eyes. Because he knows only this:

Without the fucking lamp, he’s as good as dead.

Carefully, he turns it off, and promises himself not to turn it on again unless he is met with no other way when in the utter dark of things.

He sets it down somewhere on the floor and, for the first time in a long time, takes on the luxury of carefully studying his surroundings. He paces the room a few times, testing the wood of the ground. It’s stable enough, and not so loud. He’s thankful for this, but also he's thankful for all of the strategically placed candles lit all across the room. Un-melted and seemingly timeless, the wicks of each one unfazed by the orange flame burning at the thread of their stems.

...Or are they?

Either way, Sebastian looks away and turns his attention instead towards the lone desk pressed back against the opposite flank of the room.

If he counts his blessings, there might still be some ammo in it, or some other type of useful-enough object that he could potentially hoard. And if he’s a smart man, he’ll take it, ask no questions, and go on his merry damn way to get the hell out of this place.

Simple enough, he thinks.  

But then he looks towards the bed behind him, large and white and fluffed up high with feather-blankets, and he feels the awful strain in his legs, the heaviness of his eyes, the ache at his back...

He gives in.

Drops everything.

Lays down.

God is real.

**oOo**

He wakes;

But he wakes mostly expecting to be back at the weird hospital place he has the tendency of teleporting into.

He’s not, though. But it's not much comfort. He sits up from the bed, and immediately he feels the growing sensation of his skull being shocked with something hard and sharp.

Renewed disgust sets in at the realization of the nightmare he’s been bound to for god knows how long.

He’s hungry as fuck, tired as fuck. His head hurts.

The springs of the mattress creak from his weight as he shifts to get off.

All is silent, except for the shuffling sound of him swinging his legs down from the rim of the bed. He rubs his eyes, yawns, and looks around the room.

Indeed all is how it was minutes before he dropped dead from sleep deprivation.

...The air feels different, however.

Not that it hasn't always. But there’s a strange smell permeating through the crooks of the floorboards, or maybe in through the ceiling. Like old rust on old plants. He’s not sure. He stands, and reaches immediately for his gun from the web-ridden nightstand, slipping it slowly into the leather holster of his hip.

That’s when he sees it out of chance, on the desk: a sort of small book that he has absolutely no recollection of seeing.

Sighing, Sebastian sways where he stands, torn.

One, he could indeed go forth and nose around the thing, likely learning little of actual use.

Two, he could collect all of his shit from the floor—like _now_ —and go right out the door.

He caves.

He is a detective, after all. And strange little mysterious books that reek of fell secrets are simply impossible for him to ignore.

He looks around him, never too cautious, and walks over to it, tentative. The cover seems handmade and patched. Creased over from use. There are sunflowers etched into the back of it, all in a bundle, and all colored in. More like a child’s diary, if anything. But Sebastian opens it up, anyway, thumbing to the middle of a random page.

It’s mostly drawings from what he can tell; flowers and sunsets and meadows and other delicate sorts of things. Some in crayon, some in paint. Looks normal enough.

A little girl’s, then?

But then Sebastian finds himself going through the last ten or so pages, and that’s when things start to really get weird.

Heads of pigs. Without the bodies. A lot of red. Outlines of human anatomies, mostly men. Lots of…brains. Worst part is, they’re all very well drawn. Nearly perfect. Sebastian grimaces, no way a child could do that. Much less, want to think it up like this.

The final page, he thinks, is the worst. But only because there’s a photograph taped to it. Two of the faces are scribbled off with black pen, but the other two he recognizes. The girl in the red dress, and the boy with the white hair.

He almost drops it, almost runs, but then the room begins to shake.

The candles dim, the air turns acrid, he can’t breathe. He reaches for his gun, but it’s no use.

Not when there’s a familiar figure coming his way, hawk-like purpose in his stride, like flitting static.

**oOo**

He can’t move.

He’s cornered, pressed up like a stamp against the wall with an invisible growing pressure at his throat thieving the air from his lungs.

He’s forced to face the man in front of him (not that there’s much to face, his hood keeps him bleak and hidden), dressed in the same whites and greys, pale as death.

But then again, it’s hard to tell if what Sebastian sees is ever actually there.

There’s a lambent tremble to the white figure’s presence, like even if Sebastian were able to reach out, he wouldn’t be able to touch him, anyway. Let alone, destroy him like the rest.

“What the fuck,” he coughs, instead. He swears he’s being strangled. “What are you..”

There’s a chuckle. A very low and hollow chuckle. But a chuckle, no less. The hooded figure approaches, and on his own cue, reveals his face.

“I thought you knew.”

Terror seeps in.

The name the doctor kept repeating from the very beginning, the fricative voice in the recordings, the vision he saw in the piano room. It’s unmistakable.

But it’s almost too late.

**oOo**

Sebastian almost feels stupid for caring.

He never asked to be a part of this mess.

So what greater change does it make that this is Ruvik, the sick little boy with no friends?

He needs to find Joseph and Kidman and Leslie and get the flying fuck out of here, _that’s_ the change he needs. And when it’s all said and done and everything’s been burned down to the lowness of the ground, he needs to move cities. Countries.

 _Planets_.

He kicks and writhes with the last few shots of breath he has left in him, but the pressure around his neck and body only strengthens, weakening him the more he moves. Almost as if Ruvik himself were draining the life from him, eating it from the inside out.

Sebastian feels as though this time around, he really might just die.

So, void of bright ideas, Sebastian stills in place completely. And only in this manner does he manage some air into his lungs. He stays that way, chest heaving in both panic and in rage, rasping for breath.

Yet, Sebastian can only just watch on, helpless, as Ruvik comes ever closer towards him, the coldness of his white and tarnished skin bleeding off onto his own like blizzard-wind.

He tries to scream, shout, anything, but nothing comes out. And if it does, they are only half-assed growls that hurt more than they’re actually worth once Ruvik reaches out with his tattered hand towards the quavering planar of Sebastian's face.

Then it lands.

Cold. Freezing. Sharp.

Like death finding you, but worse.

Through the blur, Sebastian can see the frail outline of a smile begin to surface along the colored line of Ruvik’s mouth.

...And it’s almost a sight not too terribly vomit-inducing to behold.

A shameful shiver runs down Sebastian’s spine. His breathing grows ragged, loud. But only because Ruvik’s hand has suddenly taken the liberty of raking itself, back and forth, into the deeper leys of his hair, threading his pale fingers through the length of it as if he were simply...petting him.

“You sick freak,” Sebastian musters, but the hand in his hair does not relent.

In fact, a worse thing happens, and Ruvik’s acidic gaze flits up to meet his own.

His eyes are like fangs, and with each passing second that he stares Sebastian down, the more Sebastian feels like he’s having the red flesh of his heart being torn out of his bones.

The pain is tremendous, but he cannot scream.

So he takes the pain until he can take no more of it; until he is babbling and defeated and worn so low from courage. And perhaps, somewhere in between his hopeless raving, he had begged for it to end.

Now Ruvik’s exultant grin is the only thing that gleams.

“You take all that I give you...” Ruvik says. “Your body was made for this.”

And then the hand in Sebastian’s hair begins to move downwards, towards his face, and Sebastian can do nothing to argue against it. He looks on, instead, snarling and gasping for breath till at last Ruvik's fingertips land at his lips, parting them and then tracing gently before moving on to the edge of his jaw and then to the exposed line of Sebastian’s neck.

Ruvik’s fingers are like razor-knives.

They travel farther down, _slowly_ , leaving slitted blood-streaks in the wake of their leaving. And when at last they reach the collar of Sebastian’s shirt, the cloth simply slices through from the underlay of their weight, never stopping. It’s only a moment after that Sebastian feels his vest being ripped open from somewhere in the middle, exposing the vulnerable skin of his chest to the mercy of the open air.

But Ruvik does not stop there.

He lingers farther. Lower, more boldly.

Sebastian cannot for the life of him bear to watch any more of it, his complete and utter undoing.

Not when he feels his belt being split in half, the prurient transgression of it—

He clenches his eyes shut, hoping to nothing, but before he could once again try his luck at escaping, he freezes, congeals, and stops breathing.

There are fingers clutching at his cock.

**oOo**

The freeze of it is torture. The feel of it is worse.

He hates himself for his thoughts, but fuck, nobody’s touched him—down there—in ages.

At least, not like that.

So grasping, tightening, like a vice.

But Sebastian is a proud-enough man (least, he tries to be) and he bites down on his own tongue until it bleeds before he could ever think to give into the maddening feeling of a dead man’s hand clasped around his cock.

And he could almost _taste_ Ruvik’s stare, studying his twisting expressions and inner despairs.

Almost clinical, almost curious.

He strokes. Presses _, pulls._

And even though his hand is cold and harsh in texture, it’s even richer in its practice. As if Ruvik himself knew precisely how Sebastian masturbated whenever he felt the most alone, how he _wished_ a woman would someday come to touch him.

Sebastian, despite his own revulsion, cannot stop himself from fully hardening.

“You f-fuck...” he wheezes, but the fevered tremor in his voice betrays him. “You b— _ah_ —”

The strokes only worsen, get longer and firmer and quicker, and Sebastian feels as though he will melt flat against the wall.

And if that wasn’t enough for his shriveling spirit to take on, an icy mouth soon finds ground upon his own, never tender and never soft, but gelid and entirely vicious, all teeth and tongue and no care at all given for any broken skin.

The taste is sweet filth. And it fills Sebastian’s mouth, drinking him dry like no other girl ever did before.

He feels his knees begin to keel.

The pressure at his neck stiffens, enough so that he can feel only the torment of Ruvik’s palm against the pulsing hitch of his cock, the wet slide of Ruvik's still-warm tongue, and of his own vile inducement as he bucks forward once midst the dread of his utter downfall, midst asphyxiation, senses amplified, milked and brimmed to the very zenith of his essence with a self-hate within him so entirely wretched that he almost weeps in the initial droughts of his climax.

And it coils like a snake within his pelvis, thieving him of reason, coaxing him, killing him, until he finds himself nearly enjoying the crude taste in his mouth, the desperate possession of Ruvik’s prying lips, the faint scent of warm sunflowers lingering yet on his paste-white skin—

Sebastian comes.

And he comes like he’s never come before, not since Myra.

It’s rage. Lust and distress and an inner sadness he could never be able to fully explain. It is a mix of things, and he spills in Ruvik’s palm despite it.

And may god damn him to the pith of all hells—he _liked_ it.

He finds only room enough to breathe properly once Ruvik pulls away from him. He is a broken man, heaving and choking against the wall. The hold at his throat has finally loosened, and through the grey bleer of his vision, Sebastian can see almost clearly Ruvik’s sneer, how he brings his sodden fingers to the dark of his lips, and _licks_.

White static, and then Ruvik is knelt before him on one knee.

He smiles, wan and terrifying and almost lovely, a wingless wraith.

And with a brief and cutting outreach of his long and elegant hand, he grasps Sebastian by the back of the hair, reeling him in.

“ _Mine_ ,” he says.

Sebastian dares to raise his eyes then, to curse or to spit, but he is left bereft—

There is nothing there.

**oOo**


End file.
